


You Wear it Well

by Thalius



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, One Shot, Other, Pre-Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Assault, i cant stress enough how not lighthearted or fun this fic is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:09:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22187617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalius/pseuds/Thalius
Summary: He and Xi'an have a history, and it isn't pleasant.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Xi'an
Comments: 23
Kudos: 327





	You Wear it Well

**Author's Note:**

> If you've somehow missed all the warnings, I'd like to stress again that this fic is going to be about Din's personal history with Xi'an and is explicitly about him being sexually assaulted by her. I've been interested in exploring this ever since episode 6 released and we saw how adversarial Din was with her and how obviously unwilling she was to respect any of his personal boundaries. I'm still kind of iffy about posting this, but I think there's value in exploring how Mandalorians (or at least the ones in Din's clan) would be especially vulnerable to people who enjoy overstepping boundaries and exerting power over others, given the way they observe Mandalorian traditions and quite literally wear their personal boundaries as armour.
> 
> This ties into [my other fic here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21611599/chapters/51533602), but neither are necessary to understand the other. I encourage you to not read ahead if this will be upsetting to you at all.

Every night she comes to him.

He can’t remember exactly when Xi’an began joining them regularly on jobs. Qin would call her the odd time they needed a fourth, and at some point she  _ became _ their fourth. She’s good at fighting and even better at killing, but that’s not what gets under his skin. 

He watches them eat from the other side of the fire, laughing and swearing and baring scars to each other like it’s a competition. Over a quarter of their payout is already gone, spent on booze and bathhouses. The first thing he’d learned when working with a group—especially this one—was to take your cut the moment you got paid, or it would be spent for you. 

His own share still sits fatly on his belt, a sick weight that can’t be ignored. He doesn’t want to think of what he could buy with it, what could be repaired. Maybe he would give it all to the Matriarch when he went back to Nevarro. She never asks where he gets the money from, but part of him wants her to know this time.

A satchel of wine hits his boot, and he looks up to see Qin watching him, one cheek still bulging from a mouthful of food. 

“Drink, Mando,” he insists. “You’ve earned it.”

“Not thirsty,” he replies, placing the satchel on the pack next to him.

“You don’t drink it to quench your thirst,” Ran says with a laugh that sends bits of food flying. “Stop brooding and take a sip. You’re ruining my evening.”

He knows that tone. It’s the closest Ran ever gets to shame. Apparently he isn’t the only one with doubts about what went down in the catina. 

“Loosen  _ up.”  _ Xi’an’s voice is close, almost a purr, and he looks over to see her crouched beside him, grinning wide enough to show her teeth. “Have some fun.”

He picks up the wine satchel and tosses it at her. She catches it with a piercing laugh, rolling her weight on the balls of her feet, and he turns to look back at his bag. He’d laid out his bedding when they’d made camp, and though he’s not ready to sleep yet, despite how exhausted he is, it’s a lot more appealing than being the focus of drunken conversation.

“I’m tired,” he announces, and ignores the jeering that follows. He struggles to his feet, the graze on his thigh burning with the movement, and steps away from the fire, towards his bed. 

“Don’t be a spoiler,” Qin calls to him. “It’s barely evening.”

He’s hungry, more than anything. He should’ve eaten before they’d made camp. Now he’d have to wait until his hunger woke him, when the rest of them had all fallen asleep or passed out, and he’d be able to sneak some food. 

He doesn’t reply to the jab, instead lying down on his bedding with his back to them. It’s the closest he can get to solitude, and if he blacks out his visor and shuts off his audial systems, maybe he can convince himself he’s actually alone. 

But there’s the problem of Xi’an.

She comes to him every night, and every night he shoves her off furiously as her hands dip to his belt and she confesses how much she wants to see what he looks like under his armour. It’s so routine by now that Ran and Qin barely notice it anymore. Sometimes she reaches for his helmet instead of his belt, and sometimes he breaks one of her fingers to remind her to keep her distance. It only ever deters her for a few nights at best, and then she’s back again, grinding her hips into him and purring into the back of his neck. 

It’s a long time before she crawls into his bed tonight. He’s almost asleep, and the uproarious drunken laughter behind him has gone silent as they drink themselves into oblivion. It makes him sick with how much he wants that luxury, even for just one night—tonight of all nights, if no other. 

He’s easing into what he knows will be a troubled sleep, hungry and sore and wanting desperately to not be awake for a very long time when he feels her behind him. Xi’an moves more silently than even the most skilled  _ Mando’ade _ , but there’s no hiding the heat of her body. She presses herself flush up against him, her breasts digging into his back and a leg curling around his thigh. A hand settles on his hip, the other curling up around his head, her fingernails clicking against the top of his helmet.

“Mando,” she whispers in a sing-song voice, and his eyes force themselves open. “Mando, are you awake?”

He says nothing. It won’t deter her, but if he doesn’t argue, she would finish with her usual coquettish act more quickly.

“I think you are,” she continues, and the hand on his hip slides slowly across his abdomen in a soft caress. “You’re troubled. I can tell when you’re troubled.”

His jaw clenches, but the words still come out of his mouth, despite his better judgement. “It’s not okay,” he whispered thickly. 

He can almost hear her smile. “What, you mean the cantina? Psh,” she dismisses, and her hand leaves his body for a moment to wave dismissively in the air. “It’s hardly the worst thing in the world.”

He knows that. It’s part of what makes it so vile—he can see himself approaching an event horizon that will swallow him whole if he lets it. And the  _ Resol’nare _ would allow him that, quite easily. He had to speak with the Matriarch as soon as possible. There were too many latitudes of violence open to him right now, and the Six Actions would be of no help in discerning which ones were unacceptable. He needs more than a gut feeling; he needs a framework.

But to say any of that to Xi’an would be worse than a waste of breath, so he says nothing.

“We’ll be off Alzoc in a day or so,” Xi’an purrs at him, her hand settling back down on his hip. “And you’ll forget all about it by then.”

He knows that’s not true, but he doesn’t argue that point, either. Xi’an takes his silence for agreement, and her hand continues to move, dipping lower towards his belt. Her hips begin to rock against him, and he can hear her breath at the back of his neck, brushing at his helmet. 

“I can make you forget right now,” she murmurs. Drink makes her body warmer than usual, and she’s like a brand against him everywhere they’re in contact. Too hot, too close, too much.

He grabs her arm, and her hand stills on his belt. “Stop.”

“Oh?” She’s the only person he’s ever known to make concern sound so patronising. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. Her fingers wriggle beneath his grip.

“The men are asleep,” she says with another rock of her hips. “Stupid drunks, the both of them. But I’m wide awake, and so are  _ you.” _

There’s enough slack in his grip for her hand to reach between his legs, and he knows he has to stop her. 

“Well,” she adds, laughing. “Maybe not so awake yet. But I can fix that.”

His heart is already hammering in his chest. She’s more gentle than usual, her touch featherlight across his gear, almost to the point that he can’t feel it. It’s a warning sign—a klaxon that blares beneath his temples and beats in time with his heart. 

He just wants to go to sleep. He doesn’t want to fight anymore—her, or anybody else. The exhaustion that has settled over him like a cloud only becomes more difficult to struggle against as the night wears on. 

The  _ manda’haryc _ that the Matriarch speaks of finally makes sense to him. It’s not his body that is tired, but his soul. A consequence of violence without a reason, a fight without an honourable victor. 

It’s nauseating, and Xi’an is very, very warm.

He doesn’t let go of her arm, but he doesn’t tighten his grip, either. That little bit of slack allows her fingers to wander, undoing his belt with a practiced flick and sliding beneath his pants. Still featherlight, still soft. He didn’t know she had the capability of being so gentle, but the threat was no less real.

He gasps when her bare fingers find him, the soft leather of her fingerless glove achingly smooth. She laughs in delight into his neck, and the next thrust of her hips is especially languid. 

“There you are,” she whispers, and it makes him shiver. 

He closes his eyes and searches for a place that is not here. His body is rigid, strung taut by her hand, and the warning to tell her to stop lodges in his throat, spiky and difficult to breathe around. To buck her off now would mean a fight, and one he isn’t sure he would win. Not tonight.

Her hand works between his legs, and to his horror, he doesn’t stop her. He shuts off the mic to his helmet so that she can’t hear him breathing harshly, but her own purring is still crystal clear and right behind him, so immediate that she may as well have been inside his helmet with him. 

His fingers tighten on her arm as he feels himself harden beneath her hand, and the snicker she gives is triumphant. “See,” she breathes, her hips still pressing up behind him. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

He doesn’t know how long she stays behind him, how long she touches him for. He never lets go of her arm, the only thing convincing him that he can stop her at any time. There’s no comfort in her touch, despite how wickedly delicate she’s being. She holds him like an unstable charge, something to be touched only with utmost fear before it’s properly disabled and disposed of. 

But Xi’an isn’t afraid of him. She never is. 

At some point she drags him up out his own mind with a startlingly rough jerk of her fingers. His other hand is fisted in the material of his pant leg, and without his permission his body finds release. It’s messy and powerful enough to knock the wind out of him, and all the while Xi’an is laughing, purring into his cloak, her leg rubbing along his thigh as she tells him, silently, that she has won and he has lost. 

He’s gasping again, and eventually, finally, far too late, he pulls her hand away, his arm shaking with the effort, and for once she doesn’t resist. 

Her hand goes back to his waist, pressing into his gear, her fingers still wet with himself. He shudders as his own hands go to his belt and pants, to hide away what she’d just done. “You lasted longer than I thought you would,” she whispers, and he can hear her licking at the rim of his helmet. “Have some experience you’re not sharing with me?”

“Go away,” he rasps, turning his helmet mic back on. He hates how close he sounds to pleading.

Her hips stop behind him, and her voice turns icy in an instant. “Is that any way to thank a lady?” she asks sharply, sitting up and grabbing his bicep. She pulls on him hard enough that he’s almost on his back, staring up at her. “After what I just did for you?”

“Leave me alone,” he insists, more forcefully this time. He punctuates his words with a jerk of his shoulder, a vain attempt to buck her off. 

Her fingers dig in hard enough that he can feel the bite of her nails through the padding on his bicep. “Say thank you,” she hisses, and her eyes are dark with warning as they bore down into his visor. 

He realises in that moment that he’s left his gun by the campfire. He jerks his shoulder again and her lips draw back in a snarl. She’s angry enough that he knows her threats are not idle, and they both know what a confrontation will mean. Perhaps Ran and Qin are too drunk to be woken by a fight, but perhaps they aren’t. 

He just wants to go to sleep.

His throat works, swallowing the spiky protest stubbornly lodged in his windpipe, swallowing whatever remains of his pride, swallowing everything else. “Thank you,” he grinds out, and her snarl dissolves instantly into a wicked smile. 

“There,” she whispers, her voice sing-song again, her grip on his arm going slack. “That’s all I wanted.”

Xi’an slips away from him then, humming a tune he recognises as the song the cantina band had been playing. He kicks at the dirt in front of him, to hide the mess she’d made of him, and collapses into the bedding, his body going slack. His helmet mic shuts down again as he gasps for breath, his spine wracked by shudders that he’s helpless to stop. He curls into a loose ball, his cloak wrapping around his body, and for a while he’s so sick with himself he wonders if he’ll vomit.


End file.
